


See the sun

by paintednails



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, Child Inquisitor, Fantastic Racism, Father Figure, Gen, Guilt, Not Trespasser Compliant, Orphan - Freeform, Reluctant Parenthood, Short Chapters, Solas Dad, Solas never asked for this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-05-31 03:11:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6453103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paintednails/pseuds/paintednails
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The anchor finds its way into the palm of a qunari orphan and Solas is deemed her primary caretaker. </p>
<p>Wherein Solas was defeated before anything even really began.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i. nameless and lost

He knew something had gone terribly wrong by the time he’d gotten there. The blackened corpses, the lingering, scattered fires and smoke had yet to clear but worse, Solas knew that his orb was gone. Corypheus had done what he had believed to be impossible. Now he would need to hunt the madman down - 

 

A soft cry, over in the ruins of what remained of the temple, found its way to his ears. It was a little sound, a little voice - 

 

_ No _ . Not that. Anything but that. Why would a  _ child  _ be here of all places? 

 

Solas found himself hopping over the still steaming earth, dodging the odd fire and digging into rock, heaving with effort, pulling blocks back that cut into his fingers and palms -  _ No _ . _No. Why, why, why has it come to this?_  

 

A child with pale purple skin, tiny horns curling out of her forehead and long white hair, lay on the ground, stunned and in pain. Her left hand crackled ominously with a green magic. The last Elvhen stooped - knees nearly buckling from the deluge of emotion he couldn't parse out - and curled his arms beneath her surprisingly sturdy body to lift her as troops began filing into the ruins of the temple with arrows pointed at him and swords drawn. 

 

Solas didn’t spare them a glance, not a thought. His entire world, his present, his plans, his future rested in a fitful pained sleep in his arms; a physical weight with the mind and face of an unknown child cursed with ancient power. 

 

Sorrow and grief over the pain this child would inevitably endure battled the hot coal of anger and bitter disappointment. _A child_. The thought echoed in his mind like a solitary yell in a yawning cavern. _Dread Wolf, what have you wrought yet?_  

  
He should have known things wouldn’t have gone as planned. Nothing ever did. 


	2. ii.

Solas collapsed heavily in a chair across from the child’s prone body. She was still clinging stubbornly to life. Miraculously. Fascinatingly. Horrifically. 

 

He looked up beneath his lashes. He had never felt so weak, so drained. Uthenara had sapped more from him than he had realized. The mark was no longer trying to kill her. He’d managed to smooth the edges, blending them into the magic that flowed through her. Had she always been magically gifted? Or was it the mark’s doing? He had no idea how old the girl was. Qunari were naturally large. 

 

He would guess her, from her size, to be about twelve. More than likely, she was younger. 

 

The Seeker, after interrogating him while the healers had tried to work with the girl, had immediately sent off for someone who may speak qunlat, in the event the girl may not speak common. 

 

Solas slid down the seat of his chair, closed his eyes for a moment and let out a long sigh. 

 

She had cried out in her sleep. Not even the embrace of the fade could prevent her from feeling the pain of the mark. Twisting in the sheets of the bed, crying and whimpering, calling for her parents. 

 

Solas felt his chest constrict at the memory of the child crying for her mother while he labored over her mark as delicately as he could. 

 

He had no idea where her parents were. She was the only survivor of the temple. If they were there. If they were there - 

 

He could barely bring himself to finish the thought. He was too exhausted to acknowledge that he may have made an orphan of a child, however indirectly. 

 

The girl made a sleepy noise and curled up on her side facing the low burning candle. 

 

Solas leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, chin resting on the knuckles of his clasped hands. 

  
_ Whatever missteps I may have made, da’len, I will see you through this. I promise _ . 


	3. iii.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for the kudos and comment, this will be the last chapter before kid!quizzy wakes up

The child’s eyes had slipped open for a moment, hazy and unfocused while she murmured a word Solas did not recognize; qunlat, he guessed, before she had slipped back into unconsciousness. 

 

The Seeker had yet to return and the Sister was ever watchful over the child marked with a strange magic not her own. Solas was only thankful that thus far, no one seemed to blame the child for anything. Religion, death, and the possibility of a continued, even bloodier war, had the potential to make people unreasonable. He could speak from experience. 

 

For now, he attempted to contact the spirits - but they had fled so quickly from the explosion, chased away by the tumult of negative emotions. Demons, twisted spirits, lurked about. Hungry and waiting. 

 

Only the mark’s dangerous, spiteful fluctuations kept the creatures from the child’s dreams. He could not find her in the fade. That was...troubling, but not surprising. The mark, in combination with her own magic which was likely only recently awakened due to her age, would make her seek out other parts of the fade. Places grown ups would not normally tread. 

 

But for now, he consulted texts. Memories. And patiently ground elfroot, honey and water into a thin broth, feeding it to the child by half spoonfuls with her body upright and supported by his own. 

 

He spoke to her in the moments when he felt guilt encroaching, like the incessant buzz of insects in the summer. Constant, unseen and ever present, ever unpleasant. He spoke to her in common, in Elvhen. He prepared himself for the possibility of teaching the girl common if she didn’t speak it. 

 

He also prepared for other things. 

 

The girl would live, the danger had mostly passed and Solas was confident enough in his own talent as well as her current symptoms, that all that was left was patience. 

 

Beyond that, it was unlikely she had kin. Qunari outside the Qun, to his understanding were commonly thugs or mercenaries. Doubtlessly, she had come from such parents. 

 

She had his magic within her, alive and restless. He could not afford to be formally separated from her. If it became necessary...he would remove both of them from this place. 

 

The tear in the sky was another problem. His magic, within his body, could do nothing for it. He imagined the mark would have a different reaction to these tears. He could not say what it would in turn do to the girl. 

 

He kept such things quiet. 

 

The child had become his responsibility when his plan caused the probable event of her parents’ demise. Mark or no. And beyond that, as a qunari child in the world where magic was reviled - when qunari did unspeakable things to their mages, when the Chantry emboldened the corrupt Order of Templars - how was he to entrust her to these quicklings? As his responsibility, his ward, and he her protector, guide, how was he to only focus on the mark knowing such things? 

 

It would be brutish to subject a child to their narrow mindedness. To abandon her to them. 

 

It was perhaps easier for Solas to separate her from her people because she was alone, young, and blameless. It mattered not that she had tiny claws on her hands, little pointed teeth like a mabari pup or horns that stretched from the edges of her forehead to curve back. She had magic,  _ and  _ his magic, and now due to what had taken place she was likely alone in the world. 

 

A quiet, mostly forgotten part of him, ached deeply in that knowledge. He Who Hunts Alone knew what loneliness was all too well. 

 

Solas reached out to her long hair and ran careful fingers through its small knots. He wet his hands with the water near her bedside to do it more easily.  

 

She sighed, content in her sleep for the first time in days. 

  
“Enjoy your sleep while you can, da’len. When you wake, the world will change.” He murmured to no one in the silent room. 


	4. iv.

It had been misfortune that he had not been the first face she saw when she regained consciousness. 

 

He had taken a small respite; a cold drink of water, walked with the snow on his feet to breathe in the mountain air, and by the time he had returned, the humans were frantically beside themselves. 

 

The girl with the marked hand. Marked by a demon, they said. Solas nearly felt his heart stop when he heard that. The Seeker had yet to return - did she have anyone beside her who would reasonably not assume she was a tool in the Divine’s murder? 

 

He lengthened his strides, nearly sprinting to where the girl was. A trembling elf servant saw him and rushed away, pale and sweating. 

 

He heard a wail, thin and high, break through the din of human voices yelling various conspiracies and foolish notions of their Maker. The wail carried on and was abruptly silenced. 

 

Solas inhaled sharply and shoved his way through the door, pushing past the armored humans within the small domicile. 

 

The girl sat with her knees tucked up in the bed, arms around her legs and her face watching them carefully. She stayed as still as a doe in the forest. The man before her was helmeted and his face unseen, hand still raised with its fingers spread. 

 

Darkening color blossomed on the girl’s face. 

 

She stayed quiet, no tears in her eyes. Just confusion. And fear. So much fear Solas thought he would choke on it. 

 

“C’mon then ox-girl. Up you get. Don’t need to herd you, do I?”

 

The girl stared up, silent and afraid and uncomprehending. Eyes huge, made even more so by the shadows beneath them. 

 

The Dread Wolf would have fallen upon these men, in their armor and cruelty, and rended the flesh from their bones and left the mess for the carrion. 

 

Solas was not the Dread Wolf in that moment, however much he wished it, and so he stepped forward, leaning on his staff casually. “Is there something I can assist you with?” 

 

One of the men turned, a jerky movement. “Oi. Elf. Tell this thing to move. One of the Brothers needs to see her.” He jerked a thumb at the girl. 

 

Solas shifted his weight, balancing on the balls of his feet and keeping his shoulders from tensing. “The Seeker and the Sister, both Hands of the Divine, have placed the girl under my care. She is not well enough to speak, or see anyone, much less having people distress her.” 

 

The leader snorted and spat to the side. “Then release her to our custody, elf. The Brother needs to see her. Tell her to get up. Couldn’t get her up for the life of me, just kept bleating at me in that damnable goat-language.” 

 

Solas pursed his lips and prepared to freeze them where they stood. He would shatter them and remove the girl from this place. She was not safe here, and nor would he be soon enough. 

 

“That will be _quite_ enough.” Seeker Pentaghast’s accent was too distinctive to mistake. 

 

“Oh, good. Thugs in armor from the Chantry bullying little girls. Nice to see that even if the world’s ending, some things stay the same.” A blond dwarf appeared behind the Seeker. 

 

Solas stepped away while the Seeker strode up the thugs, snarling as fierce as any mabari with the dwarf slyly offering up comments beside her. He stood before the girl and placed a hand to her abused cheek. She stiffened and made an aborted noise, but he soothed her with a soft murmur and healed the bruise. 

 

She looked up at his face. Solas smiled down at her and the fear left her eyes. It had been a very long time since anyone had looked to him for a promise of comfort or protection. She gripped his tunic with strong, clawed little hands and buried her face into his side, hiding from the others in the room. Her shoulders shook and Solas felt wetness spread from his ribs. 

 

His hand hesitated for a long moment before he rested it on the crown of her head. 


	5. Anir the qunari i.

 

  
  
  


The girl does speak common, although it carries an accent, but she can understand and respond to the relief of everyone. She does not, however, speak to others freely. Often she cowers beside Solas, butting her chin into his hip while her forehead and tiny horns press into his ribs. She says she is seven and she will be eight this coming winter. 

 

The knowledge makes Solas’ heart ache. She is so very young. 

 

The only other person she seems to take very well to immediately is Varric who jokes kindly and has a story on hand at all times. 

 

She had had magic before the mark, but not enough knowledge to appropriately wield it. 

 

Her name is Anir. 

 

Solas clears his throat when a Chantry mother comes closer to inspect the so called Herald of Andraste. A child, he wants to laugh and weep and rage at these quicklings, you would place such lofty expectations and burdens on a child - but he holds his tongue. Their magic was not what had doomed the girl in the first place. He remains vigilant and comforting to Anir who makes a small noise of distress, a quiet murmur as she tightens her hold on his tunic. She shakes at his side. She is so afraid. 

 

The Chantry Mother is a good woman though, kindly and elderly. “Sh, sh, sh, little one. You told the Seeker you do not know where your parents are, yes?” Anir shakes her head and he can tell his tunic is snagged on a little horn now. The Mother sighs softly, sadly. “Any family at all, dear?” 

 

Anir peers at the woman with one large violet eye. “Shoktar took care of me. He found me.” 

 

The Mother nods encouragingly. “And where is Shok-tair?” She stumbles over the unfamiliar name. 

 

Anir fully turns to her. “I don't know.” It is not new knowledge to him, but the impact of it being said aloud, shared with others, digs into the cavity of his chest; a tiny hand clawing at the shreds of his heart. It is perhaps even more heartbreaking that Anir seems to have accepted her previous caregiver’s absence with only watery eyes and a jaded understanding of the world. To her, he is already dead or she has been abandoned due to the increased hostility of the Chantry forces that linger. Neither is an ideal outcome. Neither could ever be acceptable. 

 

The Mother’s smile slips and Solas closes his eyes. He clears his throat again and Anir looks up at him at once. “Come, you haven't eaten breakfast yet.” He tugs on her shoulder and leads her away with a parting nod to the Mother. 

 

“I want steamed apples.” She insists stubbornly. 

 

Solas nods absently. “Should they have any, da’len, they are yours.” 

 

A lost child with either no one left to care for her, or missing caretakers. He doesn't tense at all the eyes on them as they enter the tavern, though the chatting dies off completely and more than one pair of eyes looks on at the girl with a particular brand of anger. His muscles relax but his ears stay alert even as his eyes become hooded and seem to be in lazy contemplation. He can never let his guard down. She holds the key. And she is his responsibility. Of all the responsibilities he has failed in his long lifetime, he refuses to fail her. 

 

Anir seems to not notice the change in atmosphere, bolstered by his constant presence, and only trots on happily near him. She separates from him and puts her hands on the counter while Flissa looks down at her with a smile. “Apples again, love?”

 

Anir nods shyly, at once demanding in the way only a child is while remaining timid. Solas snaps to attention, drawing his focus from the group of humans who are still so quiet, “And oatcakes, if you have any. Bread, cheese.” He looks down at Anir who has tipped her head back to look up at him. “You cannot live off of apples.” He means for it to be reproving but it comes out fondly. She nods and scrambles up on the available stool and swings her feet while Flissa bustles to put food on a plate. 

 

Solas slides onto the stool beside her and taps his fingers to the minstrel’s tune that has begun to pick up again behind them. Noise soon crowds the bar again. 

 

Flissa slides a hot cider and a plate of salted meat and plain goat cheese, and a side of fresh bread their way. A plate of steamed apple slices is placed in front of Anir, slathered in honey and cinnamon. Anir thanks her, minding her manners, and eats quickly. 

 

Merely a week ago Solas had been unable to coax her to eat more than elfroot broth. Now, it seems as if she is a bottomless pit. He slides the fare in front of her and takes the cider with an appreciative nod. Flissa grins and flounces away, summoned by a group of soldiers. 

 

Anir has already finished her apples and picks her way through the bread and meat, ignoring the cheese slyly until, while barely looking at her, Solas taps the plate pointedly. The cheese too, lastly and grudgingly, is eaten. 

 

“Full.” She declares and eyes his cider. He reaches across the counter and dips a flag on into the water barrel before placing it in front of Anir. “Milk?” She asks hopefully, although she is already drinking the water. 

 

Solas shakes his head regretfully. “There is no milk here, da’len.” The cheese is old, preserved and hard, and there are no nanny rams or mother cows or druffalos nearby. 

 

Anir looks downcast but finishes her water and asks for another. 

 

And when she is done with her water, she cocks her head to listen to the minstrel and slowly makes her way onto Solas’ lap, clutching at him with her tiny talons and leaning against him, for all the world looking like a child with her much beloved father. Solas has tried to discourage it previously, but despite all her manners, this is one of the few fields she remains stubborn in. And if he is truthful, it is not such a terrible thing to be a person of sanctuary and comfort, instead of a vile trickster and traitor. 

 

He adjusts her on his lap carefully so that his thighs take the brunt of her weight and opens a journal that recounts the tale of Andraste and Shartan. Anir puts her thumb in her mouth, uninterested in his reading material and listens to the “Ode to the Mabari”. 

 


	6. interlude: the lamb, the bull and the wolf

Anir, to the surprise of everyone, was absolutely terrified of the Iron Bull. Cassandra had managed to find a qunari who spoke common and qunlat fluently, and who would be a welcome addition to the military ranks. He seemed to fit the bill. He was Ben-Hassrath, unfortunately, which meant his ties to the qun ran deep. But if Sister Leliana knew and still was willing to open her ranks for him, Solas could do little about it. 

Solas had been ready, if somewhat reluctant to let her out of his sight for long, to pass on his caretaking duties to the qunari; someone more keen to her culture, and the exotic embodiment of her race. 

Anir had wanted no part of him. When Cassandra, who Anir seemed intimidated by and in awe of at once, had led Solas and the qunari child sized bur attached to his side to introduce them to the Chargers, Anir had gasped and the color drained from her face. 

She had hid behind Solas, tugging at his arm insistently, and when he had not immediately moved to comfort her, in shock as he had been by her abrupt change in mood, she had begun to cry and wail, calling out in qunlat. 

Solas had had no choice but to turn and pick up her, her arms had wound around his neck although she continued to cry, and he had removed her from the presence of the Chargers. 

It was Iron Bull who had offered an explanation to Cassandra and Leliana and Cullen when he'd been questioned. Leliana had traveled with a qunari before and seemed more than aware of the reasons. Cullen had been immediately straightforward - “Will this be an issue, I will not have the Herald of Andraste terrified.” And Cassandra had been solemn in her judgement. 

Solas had only found out much later what the cause likely was. Anir had been inconsolable in the meantime while the Inquisition advisors had had a meeting with the Iron Bull, and Solas had been unable to leave her side, quieting her in elvish and running his fingers through her hair, leaning her against him as he sat on his bed. 

The Iron Bull told him personally after his subsequent interrogation. “She's not qunari.” He said point blank. Solas’ responding blink was slow and unimpressed. They stood outside of the small room he called his own, Anir had sobbed herself to sleep. Solas was unwilling to let the Iron Bull in the room to talk. It had taken him ages to calm her. 

“She  _ is  _ qunari.” Solas crossed his arms and leaned back against the door. 

Iron Bull rubbed his hand on the back of his neck. “Yeahhhh...look she's my race. Qunari. She isn't one of us. She was born outside the qun. Technically, she’s Tal-Vashoth. Qunari, my people, we hunt Tal-Vashoth for deviating from the qun.”

And Solas stiffened, felt something cold form in his chest. His ears flattened against his skull and he met Iron Bull’s gaze squarely. “You hunt those who would seek life elsewhere?” 

“I don't. Not my role. But qun demands it.” Iron Bull to his credit did not justify himself. 

Solas would see him dead before he let him near Anir unsupervised now. “You are still part of the qun. And yet here you are.”

The qunari spread his arms out. “Here I am.”

“You even hunt children, born beyond the qun and who know nothing of it?” The anger continued to build. 

“No. Typically, they bring the kids back to be taught.” 

“But you slaughter their parents?” 

“Tal-Vashoth are not brought back, no.” 

“And children who have been taught magic beyond the reach of the qun?” Solas found his voice dropping to a hoarse rasp. 

Iron Bull sighed. “If they have magic and it was fostered outside of the qun, then they bring them back. But they had to go through a...reconditioning process.” 

Solas moved away from the door, opening it just enough to slide inside before he paused and spoke to him without turning. “You are not to be anywhere near her if I, Varric or Cassandra are not there.” 

The Iron Bull looked remorseful, understanding. “I get it. And I wouldn't do that to a kid. Not my duty.”

Solas clenched his jaw. “That it less of a comfort than you think.” And the door slammed shut. 

Anir was awake, sitting up in his small bed with her big, wet eyes watching him as if afraid of disapproval. Solas said nothing, merely crossed the room to sit beside her gingerly. “He is here for the Inquisition.” He remarked slowly, at a loss for words. “Not you.” 

Anir said nothing. She dangled her legs over the bed and kicked slowly in circles. She watched the floor. “Shoktar told me they took mother and father away.” She said, quiet and cold and hollow. 

Solas said nothing. Her caretaker’s words were not false, but they were not wholly the truth of the matter. They were dead or gone and Anir, a mage and born beyond the qun, was an aberration the qunari would never abide. 

He lay his hand on the top of her hand, palm over the curve of her closest horn. “He has not come for you.” 

She made a noise and leaned into him, needy for comfort. “What if he tells on me?” her voice; brittle and thin as spring ice, terrified as a lamb in the dark. 

Solas had been known as Fen’Harel once. Dread Wolf. Trickster. Betrayer. Ender of all that is and was. He was a shadow of what he once was, sapped of his power. But there were other ways to make someone beg and plead, to hurt someone. There were possibilities beyond the scope of what the Iron Bull knew, that he had once been party of to make someone bleed, scream. The qunari knew ways to hurt people, Solas gathered that he was likely experienced in it. 

He did not know how to turn someone’s dreams into their waking life, to slowly incite insanity and doubt and completely poison another person’s existence. Solas did. He had once been very good at it. 

He cupped her temple and pressed her closer - was it the mark that drove him to respond to her in such a way, connected not by blood but by a tie that marked her as his - ward - or was something shaping both of them beyond the scope of which he could see? He felt the changes, as obvious and subtle as fall to winter to spring to summer but for the life of him he could not mark the location or cause. 

And - was she a naturally trusting child, was it a direct cause of the mark that made her so at ease around him - or was it the encounter in the Fade she spoke of sparingly; confused and bewildered by that which she witnessed and experienced? 

**Solas had no answers. **


	7. the greater good i.

“There are more demons pouring out of the large rift in the sky. We must do something. We are losing soldiers.” Cassandra leaned against the table and met the eyes of those gathered in the small meeting room of the Chantry. 

 

Varric sighed and rubbed a tired hand over his face. “We’ve been fighting demons for the past four weeks and it’s not getting any better. Tell me you’ve got an idea.” He looked at Solas. 

 

Solas regarded the map on the table. Once the lands known as Ferelden and Orlais had been the walks of the elven empire. Now they were overrun with the blind and hapless and foolish. 

 

He met Cassandra’s piercing gaze. She was a spear - streamlined and direct, sharp and unrelenting. “There may be an answer. But it will not be easy. And none of us will like it.” His eyes wandered over to the shrouded sister, cloaked in armor and shadow. Her eyes narrowed and her lips thinned. 

 

“The child.” She said, distant and removed. “You think the mark on her hand will assist us.” 

 

“It reacts as the tear reacts.” 

 

Sleepless nights where Anir did not simply toss and turn but scream and cry and beg as only a child could beg in common and in qunlat when the mark lashed out. Solas was running on lyrium potions and tea; anything to keep himself constantly awake and strong enough to take some of the mark’s pain from her. 

 

Cassandra inhaled sharply, brows drawn together. “Will it pain her? Hurt her?” Her voice was hushed. She looked ill. 

 

The Iron Bull looked apathetic although by the set of his shoulders he looked ill at ease but Varric frowned, gaze soft with sympathy and a jaded knowledge beyond his years. Sister Leliana was already nodding. “It will probably kill her. But it will heal the sky.”

 

The Right Hand turned on the Left Hand. “Leliana!” She cried out as if wounded. “Do not say such things in such a way!” 

 

Leliana paced to the front of the room, eyes on Solas. “Am I wrong?” 

 

Her tone made Solas clench his jaw. “No.” 

 

“Will she be able to heal the sky? The mark may be divine or otherwise - but does it have the power to do what we need it to do?” The Sister was relentless. 

 

Solas pulled his arms behind him. “The magic in her palm is not her own, it echoes what was done at the Temple, and reacts in tandem with the sky.” 

 

“ Will it kill her ?” Cassandra sounded desperate to believe otherwise. 

 

The Elvhen did not turn to look at her, but Varric caught his eye. “Simply receiving the mark would have killed someone far older and more experienced. She is too young to have been burdened with it.” 

 

She will die and it will be another failure in my long life. 

 

The Seeker made a noise like a sob and growl caught in her throat before she left the room. Commander Cullen sighed and rested his hands on the pommel of his sword. “At least make sure she’s comfortable before we make for the rift. I’ll gather our forces.” 

 

The Iron Bull turned to the Commander to speak of tactics. 

 

Varric made his way over to Solas. “No chance? If you say it will be a miracle, I’ll believe you.” He said quietly. 

 

Solas could already feel grief come upon him, an old friend; but unwanted, unneeded and wretched. “She is just a child.” And the statement meant more than Varric knew. 

  
  



End file.
